1989: A Prologue

            My decision to stop gambling was not based on immorality or sin, guilt or pressure, divorce or loss. I didn’t cram my cards in my kitchen’s junk drawer because I grew tired of the dark magic they brought me; I didn’t stop visiting the casinos because I felt I was “dependent on the competition.” Truth be told, it wasn’t really my choice: my bank statement did that for me.

            Within two days of my cold-turkey detox, I came to a conclusion: I smelled like death. Not the kind of death found in a serial murders basement. It was the kind of death that you see in an overdosing junkie’s eyes. I had the undeniable stench of a Bicycle deck on my hands. A Bicycle deck that had been soaked in cigar smoke, casino-brand gin, and the essences of mystical sirens that were dressed in outfits tailored in orange and pink feathers. This was a time before one could bring a virtual casino into his bedroom and toil away his days making faux-bets, stopping only for the occasional bathroom break and, of course, to watch porn. It was a time when one had to leave his house, take a taxi to the boulevard, and sit on a hard, plastic stool to earn his keep. And said keep would usually end up being nothing, thanks to some putz with beginner's luck and enough common sense to quit while he was ahead.

            The feelings of having to hand over the money from my daughter’s now-pawned, antique doll house really can take a toll on one’s mind. And the movies weren’t helping matters either; after all, they were the ones who were bringing these fools to the tables. I spat at these romantic dramas that depicted people gambling on a whim.

            Women in tacky, floral dressed and men in their suits tossing dice onto a board. A group of college fraternity boys hitting on a cocktail waitress and winning a bundle on their first tries. Poker isn’t something one does on a whim; it’s a blood-sport that has no qualms about taking you in for all that you’ve got.